


I'll Make the World Safe and Sound

by thelostcolony



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Basically because I feel like It's Quiet Uptown wasn't enough of a kick to the gut, Canonical Character Death, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Grief, I'm very sorry, One Last Time takes place after It's Quiet Uptown, We're gonna ignore historical timeline and musical timeline, which basically means that Washington is still in office after Phillip's death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-15
Updated: 2016-04-15
Packaged: 2018-06-02 08:13:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,702
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6558934
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelostcolony/pseuds/thelostcolony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't take a break. If he takes a break, he'll fall apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Make the World Safe and Sound

**Author's Note:**

> Basically because, as I said, It's Quiet Uptown wasn't enough of a kick in the teeth for me. And I'm sorry if this happens to make you cry; I've traumatized a few friends with this already. (And I, like many others, never thought I'd get to a point where I was writing fanfic about Founding Fathers, but eyy. @AlexanderHamilton: Sorry bro.)

He can't take a break. If he takes a break, he'll fall apart, unwind at the seams like a quilt with a loose string pulled, crumble like sand from an hourglass. So he doesn't stop. He'll fall apart, he'll fall apart, he can't, he can't stop, he has to be nonstop-

So he doesn't stop. He writes and reads more than he eats and sleeps, edits and publishes and consults in cabinet meetings more than he socializes and sees his family. He spends almost every waking moment drafting and refining and _writing_ , and then the sleeping moments merely dozing, fingers twitching with all he has to do. He can't stop. He can't stop. If he stops, it'll catch up- it'll get him- it'll swallow him. The grief will swallow him.

A knock on his office door pulls him from his thoughts, quill jerking slightly on the page as they're are interrupted. It's alright; there was no more ink left on it to smear anyhow with how fast he'd been writing. "Come in," he calls, his voice scratchy from disuse, and the door cracks open. Alexander stands so abruptly that his chair screeches as he pushes it back, desk rocking as he presses his palms against the surface to steady himself. Dizziness from standing too fast. "Your Excellency," he greets tirelessly, hands working to cap the bottle of ink sitting on his desk and sweep up spare parchment and find an unbent quill all in the same motion. "Sir if this is pertaining to the upcoming cabinet meeting please don't feel as if I'm unprepared; I've had an argument finalized for a week now about how the banks are a necessary part of the structure of the government and how Jefferson should stop complai-"

"It's not about the cabinet meeting, Alexander," Washington grits out, sounding more strained than annoyed. Alexander looks up long enough to see the General- President- General pressing his fingers to his right temple, where a headache is surely pounding. He knows- he has- he feels- he knows the feeling. He's had the same headache quite frequently in the past weeks, and usually it's from all the noise of the house when he's trying to do his paperwork, a headache from the sounds of the piano floating through the floorboards- He shouldn't get them anymore; it's quiet, it's much too quiet-

"Ah," Alexander says, swallowing as he begins shuffling papers once more. "Then perhaps you want to hear my opinion on the new bill Congress has been dying to pass under your nose? As much as I admire the tenacity of Congress trying to do such a thing without your explicit consent I strongly disagree with the conten-"

"Alexander," Washington repeats, more strained this time. Alexander _can't stop can't stop can't stop_ , if he stops it'll catch up to him, it'll catch up, everything is so quiet and his thoughts are so loud, so loud-

"Sir I sincerely believe that despite Thomas Jefferson's good intentions for the South and Aaron Burr's new position that-" __

_"ALEXANDER!"_

Alexander jumps so hard that the papers he had been holding scatter everywhere, fluttering loudly to the ground as the quills ping off his desk's surface, and he watches as the ink bottle falls and falls and falls and then-

Shatters.

Time stands still. Alexander is frozen, unmoving, paralyzed, Washington himself breathing heavily, fingers back at his temple. Alexander can't tear his eyes away from the dark ink staining the ground, staining the ground, pooling around his feet- it's on his hands, he must not have capped the bottle properly, the stopper may not fit right anymore with the amount of times he's pulled it out with more force than necessary, it's all over his hands-

 _I did exactly as you said, Pa_ -

"Alexander." Washington is closer now, closer; his breath is in Alexander's ear and he's saying his name so quietly, so quietly, so quietly that Alexander can barely hear it over the hurricane of his thoughts, the hurricane of his thoughts. "Alexander." Washington's voice is strange- no longer strained; gentled, softer.

 _Pity_. Pity makes Alexander sick to his stomach; the one thing he hates more than weakness is pity-

"Alexander, son. Look at me."

 _Son, son, son, **son**_ -

"Don't," Alexander chokes, voice finally cooperating enough to utter sounds. It doesn't come out as he'd like; instead of forceful it sounds desperate and small, and Alexander struggles to take in air. "Don't."

Washington obligingly- kindly- falls silent, standing beside his right-hand-man. And Alexander can't stop, he can't stop looking at the ink stain, can't stop picturing bloodstains, can't stop picturing Phillip's tear-stained face and it's too much it's too much he can't _stop_ -

"Alexander," Washington murmurs and this is it- of all the things to break him, of all the things to unleash the storm inside him, it's the uttering of his name. With a sob Alexander falls apart, stands there and weeps like a child, and Washington steps forward and then there are arms around him and he feels so small and he held Phillip like this when he would cry and that makes him cry harder and throughout it all he thinks he's apologizing and Washington is just "shh, shh, shh,"ing him and it's so much, it's too much, he needs it to stop.

He has no idea how long he stays there crying like a child- it could be minutes or hours or days; Alexander doesn't know what day it is, he wouldn't know how many had passed. It feels like forever. But his sobs taper off until they're not so frame-wrenching, not so body-wracking, don't leave him unable to stand with their strength. He thinks the General holds him up at these points for he doesn't recall sinking to the floor, but he can't be sure. He's hiccupping pathetically, tears still leaking from the corners of his eyes and staining whatever fabric his face is pressed into- it might be Washington's coat. He doesn't know. He doesn't remember being drawn into an embrace, but he remembers arms being around him- they're still around him, one circled around his back and the other around his shoulders, a hand lightly cupping the back of his head- not pressing. Supporting. Balancing.

Alexander allows himself a moment's respite, a quiet second of peace, of protection, of safety. He hasn't ever had a moment to himself, a moment to let go; he has always stood tall, always done things himself, always climbed higher, always reached for more. That's the type of thinking that got his son-

"Alexander," Washington says softly, and Alexander feels rumbles against his chin- so his face is pressed to Washington's chest. "Alexander."

His name will be his undoing, but it's not _son_ , thankfully it's not _son_ , _son_ is too painful-

"Take a breath," Washington instructs, not pushing him away but releasing his grip slightly- making sure he will be obeyed. "You aren't breathing. Take a deep breath."

He can't, he wants to die, all the air has been sucked out of the world, all the light-

"Alexander!" Sharp. So sharp. Always sharp, always a command. "A breath. Now."

It's an order, he can't disobey a direct order- takes a deep breath. His lungs expand and contract like they're made of paper-mache.

"Come," Washington murmurs after a few silent minutes of breathing, when Alexander is calmer. "Come now." He gently places his palms on both of Alexander's shoulders, nudging him away slightly- perhaps to look him in the face. Alexander meets the General's gaze, eyes swollen and red. He's too exhausted to put in the effort of defying Washington's verbal and nonverbal orders. Following commands right now is- easier.

 _Even before we got to ten_ -

"When was the last time you slept?" Washington asks- not unkindly, never unkindly. Alexander wracks his brain briefly. Washington doesn't rush him. Alexander can't remember. "What about food? When was the last time you ate?"

Alexander doesn't remember.

Washington sighs- but it doesn't sound frustrated, or even pitying. Maybe it's sympathy. Maybe it's just a sigh. "Come. You need sleep."

Alexander can't sleep, can't sleep- he closes his eyes and sees bloodstains instead of ink splotches, sees pistols instead of quills, hears French words instead of English ones, only ten, always ten-

_Un deux trois-_

Washington is leading him, he realizes. He's been following his General for however long and he hadn't realized. The hallways of the building are deserted; no one is in their offices, the doors locked and shut for the night. Few candles illuminate the hall itself. Only Washington's office bears any sign of life at this hour.

"Come," Washington says once more, and pushes Hamilton lightly down onto the couch in the corner- probably for when Washington himself pulls full nights. Alexander is too tired to argue, too tired. ((Eliza will wonder where he is. She won't say anything to him about it come morning when he returns because she isn't speaking to him currently, but he knows she'll wonder, knows she still cares for all she pretends not to, knows she misses his presence next to her when she sleeps as much as he misses hers. He's been a terrible person, a terrible father, a worse husband.))

Alexander allows Washington to lay him down, back against the couch, head cushioned on the armrest.

There is so much- there is- Alexander should have said no, should have told Phillip to drop it, to shoot; should have told Phillip to bring him as a second so he could settle it himself and that he had nothing, nothing to prove- and instead he gave his son his pistols, told him _come back home when you're done_ and _make me proud,_ and Phillip was dead, dead because of his father's hubris- 

"Sleep," Washington commands, and Alexander's eyes slip shut before he can fully process the order. His mind is quiet. Too quiet. But it's better- it's stopped- it's- it's- he can't stop, but he- he needs to stop, he needs- quiet. He hates it, but he needs it. He was always searching for more thoughts, more ideas, trying to get things done, trying to go.

And now...it's quiet.

He never liked the quiet before.


End file.
